On that most terrible day, October 8, 1973, Captain Gavron was twenty-six. And he was caught up in the frenzied rush to join General Abraham “Bren” Adan’s tank division. He was alongside the general as they charged out into the desert to face the massed ranks of Egypt’s well-prepared troops sweeping across the canal.
The Egyptians had slammed into the Israeli defenses while the entire nation was at prayer. When the two armies finally came face-to-face in the Sinai, General Adan was still unprepared. He was stunned by the suddenness of the attack, and every advantage was with the invaders. The Egyptian troops, backed up by literally hundreds of tanks, dug in, calmly, to await the hopelessly outnumbered Israelis.
General Adan and his men attacked with stupendous courage, and for a half hour it looked as if the Egyptians might lose their nerve and retreat. But in the end, their superior numbers held sway, and after four hours the bloodstained, battered Israeli armored division was forced back.
Hundreds had died. David Gavron was wounded, shot as he tried to drag an injured man from his burning tank. Then he was blown twenty feet forward by an exploding shell that seared the entire left side of his face. At that point, Israel’s fate hung in the balance. They were temporarily saved only by the gallantry of their teenage infantrymen, who fought and died by the hundreds trying to hold the Egyptians back until reinforcements arrived.
For a while, the Sinai was the Somme with sun and sand. But finally, assisted by Captain Gavron, General Adan re-formed his front line and once more they rolled forward into the teeth of the Egyptian attack.
David Gavron, his arm bandaged, his face burned, fought only thirty yards from “Bren” Adan. To this day he is still haunted by the memory of that moment when “Bren” raised his right fist and bellowed the motto of his embattled army-Follow me! It was, he says, the sheer nobility of the man.
No one who was there would ever forget that roar of anger and leadership, as the guns of the Israeli tanks once more opened fire. No one heard it louder than David Gavron, as his tank rumbled forward, and there, to his starboard side, was General “Bren,” right fist still clenched, at the head of his battered division, pounding toward the heart of Egypt’s Second Army.
The Israelis opened fire. They threw everything they had at the Egyptians, whose commanders finally lost their nerve completely and gave in. Nine days later, General Adan, with the always-faithful Captain Gavron, drove on and crossed the Suez Canal, and proceeded to smash the hell out of Egypt’s Third Army, before leaving it isolated in the desert.
Decorated for gallantry beyond the call of duty, David Gavron was promoted to become one of the youngest colonels ever to serve in the Israeli Army. He was groomed for many years to take up his position as head of the Mossad.
For all of their lives, the legendary General Adan and the subsequent prime minister, General Arik Sharon, would regard David Gavron as perhaps their most trusted friend.
Arnold Morgan knew every line of the above. He did not expect the ambassador to regard Ravi Rashood as anything less than a reptile that must be beheaded at any cost. David regarded any enemy of Israel in that light, as indeed Admiral Morgan did enemies of the United States. They were two military leaders who, through no fault of their own, considered their nation’s problems to be theirs to rectify. They were born that way.
The plush Matisse restaurant tonight would not be an ideal place for any terrorist to look for mercy. Especially if he happened to be General Ravi Rashood. Admiral Morgan anticipated having the upper hand, since he alone could tell the Israeli ambassador the whereabouts of the Hamas military leader.
Geographically, the restaurant was perfectly positioned, just about midway between the Morgans’ home at the edge of Chevy Chase Village, and the Israeli embassy, which was situated three miles north of downtown D.C. off Connecticut Avenue. The other attraction of Matisse was that it was generally regarded as among the top five restaurants in the Washington area, a favorite haunt of presidents and senators.
With its superb design inspired by Henri Matisse’s work, its gleaming white tablecloths, and French Mediterranean cooking, the restaurant felt no obligation even to put prices on its menu. The introduction of crude commercial considerations would doubtless have caused the head chef to have a nervous breakdown.
Arnold Morgan lived only a mile away, and he was a regular. For this night, he chose a corner banquette in the cozy back dining room, with its cheerful limestone fireplace. It was automatically assumed that a member of the proprietor’s family, the lovely young Deanna, would serve the table personally.
Admiral Morgan arrived first with his wife, Kathy. His driver, Charlie, dropped them right outside the door on Wisconsin Avenue, and they stepped out into a biting January wind gusting out of the northwest. As soon as they were seated, the admiral ordered a bottle of supreme white burgundy, his favorite Meursault, Premier Crus Perrières 2004, made by the maestro Jean-Marc Roulot at his small domaine off the main road through to Puligny.
He was certain this would please General Gavron, who, despite hardly touching alcohol while he was involved in the Mossad, these days had mellowed and hugely enjoyed a glass of what Arnold described as snorto-de-luxe.
This was plainly a phrase more befitting the torpedo room of a nuclear submarine than the fabled small chateaux of the Côte d’Or in central France. But it did not disguise the admiral’s knowledge and enjoyment of great French wine, and tonight was an occasion to be savored.
If it were successful, the admiral’s selections ought to be paid for by a nationwide donation drive of pure gratitude by the American people.
In the absence of that, Arnold would probably toss the check at the Oval Office for a refund. As for charging one dollar for his time and skill, the admiral would have had the same stunned reaction as the Matisse head chef if anyone happened to mention money.
At 7:42 P.M., Ambassador Gavron’s driver dropped him off outside the door. He arrived at the admiral’s table dressed in a dark blue lightweight suit, with a white shirt and a blue silk Israeli Navy tie. He leaned over to kiss Kathy’s hand and then shook the hand of Arnold Morgan.
Just then the chilled Meursault arrived, and the waiter poured three glasses. David Gavron raised his and said quietly, “To the United States of America.”
“Thank you, David,” replied the admiral, who usually presumed he was the United States of America, particularly in the event of trouble.
“Before we begin, let me have them prepare a bottle of Bordeaux for our main course,” said Arnold.
“No argument from me,” chuckled the Israeli, flashing his wide smile, which Kathy, along with several other beautiful women, some of them divorced, considered so engaging. It made him one of the most attractive men in Washington. Especially if anyone knew his background: decorated warrior, the Mossad’s James Bond, and latterly a high-ranking diplomat on the world stage.
Arnold studied the wine list, which he normally referred to as the race card, and chose a third-growth bottle from Margaux, the 1996 Château Palmer, which sits on the left bank of the Gironde, just west of the junction with the mighty Dordogne River.
“I think we’ll be okay with that,” he said. “Sixteen years old from the slopes near the village of Margaux, where they once grew the favorite wine of Thomas Jefferson… and you know something? People still say that after a really hot summer, those wines still surpass all others grown in the High Médoc.”
“Arnie, how the hell do you know all this stuff?”
“David, you may, during the course of this evening, become astounded at some of the things I know.”